


Before I Sleep

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: “Let’s go for a walk,” Sherlock said.





	Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Never too early for a Christmas ficlet, right?
> 
> Inspired by Kurt Vonnegut's _Long Walk to Forever._  
>  Quoted poems are by Robert Frost.
> 
> Many thanks to X and [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel) for the encouragement and advice <3

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—_

_I took the one less traveled by_

* * *

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sherlock said.

John stood in front of the door and let the cold air swirl in, chilled tendrils curling around the nape of his neck, sending a prickle of goosebumps across his skin. He stood, and was silent.

Sherlock’s eyes held level with his. Pale and shimmering, they glowed a faded blue in the inky night air.

John’s eyes shifted behind him to a dark nightscape. Snow fell in sparkling refractions against the washed-out light of the porch lamp.

“A walk,” he said. His voice was rough.

Sherlock raised his chin a fraction. Something in his eyes flickered before gaining strength once more.

“Yes,” he said. “A walk.”

A gust of wind picked up and wrapped itself around John’s shoulders, the thin cotton of his t-shirt providing little protection against the chilling embrace. John pressed his lips together and said, “It’s nearly midnight.”

“I am aware,” Sherlock said.

John said, “What’s the occasion?”

Sherlock tipped his head to one side. “Merry Christmas, John.”

John tilted his head, mimicking the other. “You don’t care about Christmas.”

Sherlock smiled. “No.”

It must have been the winter breeze, that made his chest constrict and his throat contract. John let his voice skim above the surface of true intent, lightly casual. “So what’s the real reason?”

Sherlock stopped for a moment to take in a breath.

“Mary,” he said slowly, softly―savouring. The word was a catalyst with the cold air; John inhaled sharply, suddenly, the sting of a chill flashing in his lungs.

“What about her?” John said.

Sherlock hummed.

“You’re still married?” he said.

The fingers on John’s right hand curled into his palm, suddenly and significantly aware of the fourth. He remembered it fit snugly. It seemed clamped, now; choked, with a strange chill in the silver band.

“Come on,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Let’s walk.”

“Where?”

Sherlock smiled, his lips tight and his eyes tinted with something bitter. “Anywhere you want.” He took a step back, letting the porch light bathe over him, shrouding him in a shadow-cape of silhouettes.

John took a step forward so that a foot was in the junction of the doorway.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Why?”

Sherlock raised his head so that the light glinted off his eyes.

“John,” he said. The word was cluttered and dense.

John swallowed. His throat felt like an hourglass, pinhole-tight and filled with sand.

“OK,” he said.

Sherlock’s smile softened into something faint. “Good,” he said. “Now, let’s go for a walk.”

-+-+-+-

The streets of London were alight with life. John followed close, his chin ducked into the collar of his coat, matching Sherlock stride for stride. They weaved through the crowd of pedestrians with heads turned down against the wind, each with their own destination in mind; paths crossing before splitting apart. The snow fell in downy clumps, feathery and damp against the fabric of John’s coat, pinpricks on his cheeks—speckled on Sherlock’s collar, scattered over tumbling curls.

Sherlock slowed his pace slightly. He turned his face towards John.

“So you’re married,” he said under his breath, a rumble barely heard above the symphony of street sounds.

They passed a church with golden lights glowing from the interior. Sounds of singing seeped through the door (Auld Lang Syne).

“I thought we had already established that,” John replied when the sounds of the choir faded into the noises of the city.

“How’s Mary?” Sherlock said.

“Fine,” John said.

Sherlock hummed and moved closer. Their shoulders bumped. Sherlock’s breath passed over John’s ear. John turned his head very slightly to the side. Sherlock moved away.

-+-+-+-

They were in a forest. The world shimmered with a thick layer of frost, a tranquil white wonderland. The noises of the streets were subdued and softened by the snow. John’s winter boots sunk into the ground with a slow crackling crunch.

Evergreen branches reached out to them, swaying in the breeze. The dim glow of faraway streetlamps struggled to cast their light.

The faint stirrings of a snowstorm swirled in the sky. John glanced up at the dark, hazy night, dappled with flakes of frost. He opened his mouth and spoke over the wind.

“We really shouldn’t be out right now,” he said.

Sherlock strode through the snow.

John caught up, grabbed his shoulder—felt Sherlock tense under his touch. He let go.

“We should head back,” he said.

“You can come in,” John continued. “Have a cup of tea. I’m sure Mary would be fine with that.”

Sherlock paused, and then relaxed, shoulders dropping as he blew out a deep breath.

“Five minutes,” he said quietly. “There’s a bench not far from here. We’ll stay there for five minutes and then you can leave.”

John watched Sherlock for a moment.

“OK,” he said. “Five minutes.”

Sherlock nodded, and they set off again.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock pushed the snow off the bench with a gloved hand; it slid and toppled into the untouched ground below, scattering dappled patterns across the sleet.

He sat down. John joined him. A foot of space—it seemed to crackle, the air bending and fluctuating between them. John’s breath turned to billowing clouds in the air.

A gust of wind engulfed them. John shivered.

“Are you cold?” Sherlock said without turning his head.

John paused, shook his head. Paused, shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Sherlock said nothing.

“Maybe a bit,” John said.

Without a word, Sherlock moved closer. A foot turned to six inches, three, two—body heat seeped through layers of fabric. A faint, subtle scent wandered through the air, conditioner and chemicals and cologne, a sharp tang of disinfectant. John watched his foggy breaths turn shallow in the night air.

A single streetlamp shone weakly upon them in a quiet, muted yellow.

The snow fell.

-+-+-+-

“It’s been five minutes,” Sherlock said.

For a moment, John didn’t say anything. Then: “Alright.”

He got up. Sherlock followed.

John slid his hands into his pockets. Sherlock clasped his hands in front of himself, fingers intertwined.

John’s eyes were fixed on the collar of Sherlock’s coat. He forced them to rise.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered. His eyelashes were coated with a layer of frost; they glittered in clumps and swooping arcs. Iridescent irises refracted in a shimmer in the faltering light.

“I’ll see you around,” Sherlock said.

John opened his mouth to find no sound. He shut it, nodded instead.

The silence stretched.

“One last thing,” Sherlock said. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I have a Christmas present.”

John tilted his head, pursed his lips.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said.

After a moment, John did.

First, there was nothing.

Then, without the distractions of the outside world, his senses heightened. Snowflakes melted into his skin, an icy breeze chilled his cheeks; the constant whistle of the wind cooed into his ear.

A presence. A wavering of movement, a flicker of motion. Something neared.

Warmth ghosted over the corner of his mouth.

It drifted upwards. It pressed against his cheek, soft and subtle.

It lingered, hovering, hesitant. A millimetre, a hair’s width apart, the faintest flutter of butterfly wings against his skin. John shut his eyes tighter, a tugging in his sternum growing in intensity to the point of pain, a flickering sputter of sparks unfolding in his chest.

It moved once again. Trailing up and in, over to the side. Petal-soft against the shell of his ear. Painfully hesitant, barely there, as if he were something fragile (something precious).

A murmur, _sotto voce:_ “Merry Christmas, John.”

It disappeared, backing off at exponential speed, leaving only a faint tingle that was quickly smoothed away by the cold December air.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock turning away.

For three seconds, he was still.

Suddenly, the spot on his cheek flared, a burst of heat. The metal band around his fourth finger felt very, very cold. In the distance, the faint toll of the bell tower struck and swept through the forest.

John took a step forward (the snow crunching beneath his boot). He called out Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock stopped.

John took a deep breath. 

* * *

 

> _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_
> 
> _But I have promises to keep,_
> 
> _And miles to go before I sleep,_
> 
> _And miles to go before I sleep._


End file.
